


Scheherazade

by scrapbullet



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:03:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She breathes. Her hair is red, Charles notes, and there is a book of poetry on the shelf behind her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scheherazade

“Let me tell you a story,” she says, and as she blows out the candle her smile is as warm as day-lilies. “Let me, let me tell you; you have to hear it, know it, you do.”

His palm up, and hers down. Together they clasp tight, fingers intertwine and though she speaks in rhyme her thoughts, her thoughts, her thoughts tremble in his head until he can barely breathe. It’s a fog that seeps into the eddies, the trenches, and Charles blinks, shakes his head, wants rid of it.

Wants rid of it, now, and it does not clear no matter how hard he tries.

She smiles, and it’s cloying. Sweet and thick like syrup and his stomach catches, clenches, tasting bile. It spills over his tongue in a great rush and she laughs as it pours out of his mouth; acrid vomit, spoiling, rotten. It drips into his lap, and the stench stings his nose.

“Come now, smile! This journey, well, it’s only for a mile or so, across the ocean-”

-and here she daubs at his mouth with a handkerchief, white and lacy, waiting as he braces himself against the torrent.

“-where there is a man. A sweet man, really, truly, though ‘tis only a facade, for his itchy little fingers skritch and scratch and delve deep. So deep, Charlie, so deep that I felt it then, like- like-”

She scowls, dissatisfied. It’s not enough, he knows, her power, her power, _what is her power, again?_ and Charles grimaces; the sharp pain in his skull escalating into a heady thrum that twists and curls and dear god, what is it, what is she doing, how does she- why is she-

“Oh hush, you’re being ever so melodramatic.”

Contract, and release. The cloak is withdrawn and he exhales, relieved. Such sport can be so very exhausting.

“You appear to have dropped this pretence, it seems.”

She hums. With a click of her fingers the candle reignites, and she pulls a face. It isn’t an unattractive face, by any means, though neither is she blessed with such genetics as to be truly stunning; a twist of her lips belying her displeasure at his thoughts.

He licks his lips. His breath tastes sour. “So sorry.”

“I’m sure,” tick tock, the muted click of her wristwatch declares, breaking the silence. Two fifteen, it states, and she tugs her sleeve down to hide it. “Shall I tell you the rest of the story?”

“Oh, please do,” and for a moment the ache within recedes, quiescent, just as she leans forward, squinting, no doubt trying to gauge his reaction.

She breathes. Her hair is red, Charles notes, and there is a book of poetry on the shelf behind her.

She plays such _games_. But why? She’s young; a mere fourteen summers.

He can’t recall much more. His data, he’s sure, is much more complete than this, and for some reason the memories are out of his reach.

Her influence, no doubt.

“Hush, questions later.”

He feigns zipping his lips, motioning for her to continue.

“This man; a bogeyman, I shall call him; for that’s what he was... came into my mind. He nestled into my dreams until I couldn’t sleep, and my every waking hour was filled with thoughts of him, of what he’s seen. What he’s done.” She pauses. “No more of this. No more theatrics, Mr Xavier; I heard you, and you heard me. I felt you, and I was curious; so I came. Here I am.”

Here she is indeed.

“And the rest?”

“It’s your story; why don’t you tell _me?_ ”

Ah, so this is how it is to be, then? An exchange, of sorts, and he knows this well enough. Plucking a piece of lint from his cardigan he perseveres, though the taste in his mouth is quite unwholesome, and leans back against the cold wall.

He stares at her, and she stares back; unimpressed.

“I’m sorry to hear that I am a creature of your nightmares, Miss Grey.”

She flinches.

Ah, a victory, though one a trifle small.

“Though I am, I admit, amused. Your gift allows you to manipulate those around you as easily as you read their thoughts, and yet I frighten you. Why is that, I wonder? Is it because of my colleagues, perhaps? I assure you, they are gentlemen. ” A dip of the head; being quite the gentleman himself. “And ladies, of course.”

For the first time this night Charles glimpses fear in her eyes. Jean pulls back, small and out of reach, shielding her body and mind in the only way she knows how; building a wall brick by brick until Charles can’t even hope to penetrate it.

She’s powerful. Good.

“You’re _his_.”

Charles cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Jean nods. Her hands shake as she grasps her body, hugging her knees to her chest, though her jaw remains square and stoic. To hold her own, to face such threat, well, Charles couldn’t hope for a better protégé, could he? And she had thrown him off guard so, earlier, where he’d tottered back and forth on uneven feet until she’d faltered, as only a child can.

“You know of him, then?”

“Of course I do; he’s Erik the Red.”

Education these days is rather pitiful. But then, what can they expect, when war rages on every front?

The humans, they fear and they anger. They breed it into their offspring, even the ones that show such promise. Children, like Jean, born into hate, fed misinformation and left to fend for themselves in a world that would surely kill them if given the chance.

That _does_ kill them; pits lined with sodden corpses, stinking, decomposing.

“Jean-”

She scoffs, looks away. She’s as normal as any human, in appearance, at any rate; not as exotic as Mystique or as devilish as Azazel.

Normal.

His gut twists.

That simply will not do.

“I’m afraid, my dear, that we are at something of an impasse.” The barest hint of a smile and Jean frowns, instantly on her guard, but it matters little. “I simply can’t leave you here, all by yourself. It’s just not the done thing.”

She doesn’t have the time to act.

Charles is just too good.

-

“You’re late.”

Charles slides into the armchair opposite, pitching forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I was indisposed.”

Erik crosses his legs, steeples his fingers. He looks satisfied, and when Charles touches his thoughts it is to a heat so encompassing that he shudders; lust shared is lust doubled, not halved.

He licks his lips.


End file.
